


Snowglobe

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: It isn't about the owning of a thing. It's about the way it came into your life.





	Snowglobe

On the surface, the demon was fast-moving, shifting his outward form to blend in (and stand out) at the slightest gust of wind. Aziraphale had long admired his ability to dance that fine line between the two. Somehow, he could tap into a zeitgeist and still remain ‘him’. New name, new hair, new obsessions... but the same old serpent under the superficial paint.

But it was superficial. His attachment to his appearance rendered each one meaningless, and thus Aziraphale paid little mind to it. What he really noticed were the things that stayed the same.

Unlike his clothes, or glasses, or coiffure... his name remained the same. The one he gave himself, that was, and the one that now ‘was’ him, in every sense. Then, the car. Aziraphale remembered when camels became horses, and when horses became metal. Crowley had always bee-lined to the newest, shiniest things... covetously acquiring them and then refusing to be too brash about them. But the car – bought new – had never fallen out of favour. 

He loved it, and there was no other term for it. Love and attachment and affection beyond basic appreciation for use. He’d moved flats several times, but he’d taken the car with him whenever he did, like a serpent pretending to be a snail. 

These things were known. Part of the complex mismatch of quirks and charms that made him whole. Warped from the influence of humans and – dare he say it – one specific angel. A shifting to blend in, maybe, or a safe place to find himself. 

What he hadn’t expected were the hidden places in the flat, in the car. Seemingly inconsequential items that didn’t fit in with the current decor. A snowglobe, tourist-style, the glass older than any human still breathing. It must have travelled across the country and perhaps the world, wrapped in paper or packing peanuts, kept safe by miraculous chances. A teaspoon that didn’t match all the other ones, the bowl of it battered and the handle slightly bent. A small collection of handkerchiefs, all delicate and pressed. Things you wouldn’t think a demon would want, least of all this one.

But he could remember every item. Most of them he hadn’t known the demon had acquired, not after he’d scolded him furiously for stealing the snowglobe and holding it proudly aloft. He’d been admiring them in the shop, and then the demon had presented it... triumphantly... as if Aziraphale would approve of petty larceny. 

The spoon had been in the little cafe where – one day shortly after a Christmas football match that shouldn’t have happened – they’d definitely not planned a way to bring hostilities to a close faster than was already in progress. Three lumps of sugar in his tea: a hideous abuse of power when people lay in mud, dying, and others queued for hours to get their meagre rations. He’d felt guilty for it, but he’d needed to steel his nerves to interfere so deeply, or ‘look away’ while Crowley used his intelligence to nudge things their chosen way.

Of course the handkerchiefs were his, or had been. Offered when the world splashed by, or dabbed at his mouth to ensure he was presentable, and pocketed wordlessly after. Mementoes of moments, like snapshots of a long life fully lived. He half expected to find the Arc of the Covenant, somehow deconsecrated; or a preserved apple core; or a pair of old sandals or...

A moment of jealousy stung him in case there were stories behind other items. Tales he hadn’t been party to. Adventures they hadn’t shared. It was ridiculous, because if anyone had been attached to those, they’d be long dead by now, and he’d never seen Crowley act too fondly around anyone. 

Inside the cupboard, with the rarely-used mugs... a hint of tartan that he recognised. It was pushed way back, and perhaps it even held traces of the dangerous liquid it once had held. A single bullet. A Hail Mary (quite literally). Something he’d regretted and feared, and had still saved his demon’s life. 

The more recent the item, the less likely it had been stolen. Not that he’d ever acquired anything of massive material value. The economy would never fail over the trinkets and baubles this snake-magpie had pilfered. No one would go hungry because of his actions. They were drops in the ocean of the universe. Wrong, but diluted. (Like most of his sins.) 

The handkerchiefs. The Thermos. The fridge magnet with the amusing quote he’d been daring enough to buy for him. The A to Z of London dog-eared in his car. Small gifts, little kindnesses. He’d felt the ache when he’d given them, and worried he was reading too much into the response.

But really. Who else had ever given him anything? Angels wanted for nothing – needed nothing – and Heaven had never needed the emotional currency at all. Not that he could ever envision Gabriel giving anyone anything but a migraine. Hell was – well – Hell. And Crowley’s acquaintances over the years had been ephemeral and useful. 

Who would give a demon anything?

Love radiated from each of these items he hoarded. Love and echoed past. Aziraphale ran his finger over milky glass, looking at the tiny scene within. He’d known that Crowley had taken the toy for him. Intended it as a gift, a trait he’d picked up from their charges. Taken to assuage his guilt for his desire to do something nice, which had made the angel baulk to be the cause of any misdeed. 

It had been a long time after that before Crowley tried to give him anything again. Food he’d paid for. A scarf plucked from a market stall and tender handed over in lieu. A phone the angel had not used for years, until necessity forced his hand. Strung out between as if he had to wait enough time for it to go unnoticed, and for the fear to become tolerable enough to allow him to act. 

Each time had made him hurt. Made both of them hurt. The way they couldn’t acknowledge what they were doing, had to feign ignorance or nonchalance as they spoke in items traded back and forth. Utility or transaction to hide a genuine compassion, or care. He’d lied to himself that Crowley didn’t really mean to make him as happy as he did, and he’d told himself he was so desperate for affection that he imagined it where it wasn’t. 

Told himself that the gifts he gave to the demon were just... to encourage him to be good. To improve. To tempt him away from his wicked ways, to show him something...

...it was sort of true. But more than that, it was selfish and selfless in one. The reflected thrill of self-denied and repressed gratitude. The way he could convince himself it was just what you should do. That it meant nothing.

But it meant everything. And they both knew, and didn’t, at exactly the same time. 

Neither of them needed material goods, not really. But the book on trees and horticulture and lost species he’d found that made him think of Crowley... or the one with the illustrations of exotic seeds and fruits... he’d immediately considered how he’d find them interesting, and brought them to him. The socks he’d received at precisely the Earth’s birthday one year, with four house crests from a fictional world... a snake, diluted by the other three, from a book as an excuse... The snake chain for a pocket-watch; the tea set with his favourite pattern; the driving gloves that lived in the Bentley; the rubber duck with demon horns...

The more he looked, the more he found. There, below the surface. Aziraphale tipped the globe upside down, and could almost taste the snow of an un-Christmas, the sugar lumps and the sound of a spoon resting on a saucer. 

He knew that if he went too far, bought him something too expensive or ostentatious that the demon would feel pressured, and it would almost be insincere. He didn’t need to buy him. It wasn’t a transaction, not like that. 

But he did need to get him more things. More memories. Perhaps he’d install some matching cocoa mugs in the cupboard. Hang something from the chain of his keys. Buy him some socks with aardvarks on the soles. A fire blanket for the car. 

Not too much. Not too fast. Little bits of his heart, of the thoughts he had of him, dotted through his life and their home. Silly, how they had to pretend, even now. He’d given him the rest of his life, and whatever might come after, but it was still too hard to admit these trinkets meant anything at all. 

The fake snow stopped falling. All these years on, and the people they’d saved by their quiet conspiracy had made children and children and peace. Crowley no longer took things he shouldn’t. Aziraphale no longer said ‘no’.


End file.
